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Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Our Lucy

Lucy was a time bomb. She was always ready to blow.

She knew it. We knew it. She knew that we knew it. We knew that she knew we knew, etc.

Her mother was a go-go dancer and her father was a Saudi prince with his own private jet plane and a shade of desert sand named after him. Or maybe he was just an oil baron… I forget the details exactly, but either way, Daddy was somebody with enough money on hand to buy a go-go dancer for the night.

And on the day Luce was born, her mother stamped an expiration date on her and she whispered in her ear, “Tag, you’re it.” So Lucy was a time bomb from day one. She was always ready to blow.

We’d all sit around and watch her fuse burn down, speculating about the burn rate. Then we’d chart out the expected end, with an ongoing betting pool that you would not believe.

And Lucy had this thing she did, where she’d bend completely over backwards and she’d grab around behind her knees. She could fit inside of anything.

A washing machine.

A suitcase.

The bottom drawer of the cabinet next to the sink.

You name it.

Used to be, I’d go to open some leftovers – yesterday’s pot roast or maybe a tuna casserole – and there would be Lucy, hiding inside the bowl. Just a set of big brown Lucy-eyes, her body twisted into some impossible shape behind them. I mean, you can only imagine: It used to scare the bejeezus out of us!

And then Lucy would just laugh and she’d laugh, but the fuse would burn down a little bit more.

Lucy had a telescope she used to peer through all the time. She had a theory on this thing she called “astral shadows” that I never did understand. Something about red shift and the trajectory of Earth and reflections off polar ice. It was all much too heady for someone like me, you understand, but our Lucy?

Standing there, squinting into her telescope, Lucy’d say, “You’ll see!” She’d say, “I’ll see back. Back, back through years, to that very moment of my very own birth. Back and see the date that Momma stamped.”

She’d say, “I have to see the date that Momma stamped on me!”

Poor Lucy! Looking for herself in the sky!

And her fuse burned down a little more.

On the night she blew – and we all knew it was coming – we all lay out on the grass next to the creek, up on the hill where we’d have the clearest view of things. Jackie did an interpretive dance in honor of Lucy, and there seemed to be too many birds flying around, like maybe they knew something, too.

And just before she blew, when we knew the end was so, so near, Lucy called me over. Down beside her. She whispered, “Tag, you’re it, Katy!” Then she stamped something on the back of my neck, on a spot where to this very day I cannot see it. Not with three mirrors and a Polaroid camera.

Lucy exploded into the night in a shower of red sparks, blue spiraling lights, in green comets and in yellow flames and spitfire. We all sat down below. Gasping. Applauding. Everyone agreed it was the best show we’d ever seen.

Well done, Lucy! Good show.

But now, what about that stamp? That expiration date you put on me? And how does one go about getting it removed?

The pics for some reason made me think of Margaret Atwood's Surfacing. And the tagging makes me think of individuation. Maybe also the tagging happens when we realise we're not immortal and we start creating in earnest.

I'm not sure what this one is really about, actually. I just write them.

But our theory sounds as good as any. I sort of get a "tag, you're it" sensation as the older generations die off. You know, like your grandparents die and your parents' generation moves up one stage closer to the cliff?

And if I can remember twenty years BACK, I can kind of picture what moving twenty years FORWARD will be like.

Katy, did you know that Saudi Arabia is the only country in the world where lies and hypocrisy governs literally every aspect of peoples lives even more that it does in America, we should have taken all that oil by force in 1945, think about how much easier and pleasant life would be for 300 million Americans now it we had.

God, after reading this dammit, I'm contemplating quitting. You're so freaking good at blogging, I don't know why I bother with barf and fart jokes. This was really really great. A beautiful tribute to Lucy.

Thanks, Pickleope! My problem is that I have a very short attention span, and I need to change up my tone and writing style and subject matter weekly or else I lose interest. So next week's could just as easily be barf and fart jokes.

Since you admitted to a stream-of-consciousness post, here's a SOC reply:

- Reading that first comment was eerie. Not because it was so profound - but because your response was more or less what was going through my head as I read it ("...about 150,000 people are gonna die today. Tomorrow doesn't look good, either...")

- Anyone who can finish a Neil Young quote is worthy of some form of worship.

- I've probably got one of those stamps, too. I've known a few who were capable of doing so; likely in the night while I was sleeping.

- Boobies are cool. Thanks for the pics.

- When I go, I either want (1) to be completely surprised; (2) explode in sparks and fireworks, thus being memorable; (3) both.

If you can live with that then I predict you will go far. I remember the first time I ever wrote a story that really excited me - I realized that the three key ingredients were aliens, sex, and guns (not necessarily in that order). Of course it must be done just right.

That would make the movie "Species" the perfect piece of writing: An alien disguised as a gorgeous blonde on a mad scramble to mate with as many human men as possible while being pursued by the government.

Ahh yes, our expiration date. No one knows where or when... I suspect they use that invisible ink like they used to use at Disneyland (the old one in California) when you left the park. Somewhere we all have a Mickey Mouse stamp that is only visible under UV or IR light, or maybe it magically appears when in the presence of 2nd hand smoke from a sacred bong. These mystics are a tricky bunch.

I love the philosophical bent you are one, especially when mixing with topless photos. That is how one appeals to both of your reader groups.

Thanks, Brent. You know, the interesting thing is, I've only been spending about 10th the amount of time on planning these blogs as I normally do. So they've just been sort of taking on a direction of their own without me getting in the way.

It is therefore sort of weird that you see the spontaneous writing as being ore philosophical!

Expiration dates: It's like a monster movie! Have you ever looked at an old group photo of your extended family and thought about how much time the people had left at the time the pic was taken? It's like a monster movie where you try and guess at the start what order the characters will get eaten.

Intentional or not, you are on a good run. Sometimes the best way is to just let it happen. I was stuck on a story until I spent 3 hours driving across OK on the turnpike last week. Better to not overthink things and (for me) too much detail gets in the way

I like the monster movie analogy. All I can remember is the girl who has sex or goes skinny dipping always gets eaten first.

This was an interesting blog and showed some introspection. It's always hard when someone you know passes on to the other side. It does remind us of our own mortality.

Most of my blogs were stream of consciousness. When I started a blog I rarely knew what it was going to be about or how it would end. On occasion I would go back and put a sentence or two where "it was supposed to be," but not very often. What seemed to attract my readers was honesty in my writing. They seemed to like that I spoke from the heart.

You can also hit politics and religion, which I sort of skirt at the edge of... When I hit politics or philosophy or religion too directly, I always feel as though I'm preaching, and that just ruins it for me.

I try not to be too "preachy," but I'm sure that many of my blogs came off that way. I try to consider the feelings of others and try to share what I've learned in life with those who might be interested. If people haven't learned anything from my blogs, I just hope that they helped a few people get through a difficult moment in their lives... even if it was by laughing at me.

Yeah...I was kind of expecting it. Last year was tougher (don't know if you know the story, but it involves a still birth and I still have a hard time with it). I had so many people telling me "You should just appreciate the two you have" and all I could think was "Yeah, thanks...that why I wanted another.". And it all started the weekend after Thanksgiving. So I got scared when it seemed to be happening again. I'm sure I will have a moment here or there, but I hope it won't be as bad as it was last year. I was ready to throw the tree in the fireplace and be done. You don't have to publish this little bit of sadness, but I really did want you to know how much I appreciate you!!

It has left me wondering "What the hell does it all mean?" Perhaps there is no meaning...perhaps the meaning remains obscure to those without a keen eye to see it...perhaps I'm trying to read too much into a blog post that was so well written!

Either way, we all have an expiration date. I'd rather not know mine. Some people shine so bright that everyone knows when they are going to blow. Me, I'm just a dimly lit lamp in the corner of the room.

Katy, the uncut version of Robert Aldrichs 1976 masterwork "TWILIGHTS LAST GLEAMING" is back on YouTube, you`ve got to nip over there right now and watch it. By the way, Merry Christmas little darlin`.

Once upon a midnite dreary, while i pondered weak and weary, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. Tis` that amazing little sex-pot Katy Anders i muttered, so i let her in and buggered her senseless.

“You deserve to be gassed or shot, depending on the circumstances. You're a health risk, a risk to children, and a risk to society. Sick, disgusting dyke. Crawl off and DIE.”– Paula A. R. DeAngelis, PhD